“Do repeat it,” said Mrs. Kendrick, as curious as if her husband had just returned from a visit to the South Sea Island savages.
“Well, he said, among other things, that Count Frauenstein’s address to them a week ago had touched them deeply, even independently of the magnificent promise of the Social Palace, which was something they could not yet realize as possible—touched them deeply because he had recognized the dignity of labor, and the rights of laborers to a just share of the products of their industry.”
“Oh, he’s filling their heads with that stuff, is he?” said Burnham.
“Not all stuff. No man could talk to men and win such unbounded admiration without talking soundly. I tell you, I’m more than ever convinced that we are old fogies. This laborer said workingmen knew perfectly well they were far below the educated gentleman in refinement, in manners, in culture—in everything, perhaps, but heart. He thought no men had more heart than workingmen, and workingmen knew their true friends just as quickly as they knew the true gentleman from the sham. ‘I felt,’ he said, ‘as the count talked, that I could not do enough to express my gratitude that God had sent us so true and noble a friend—a man disclaiming the idea of charity, and avowing that the best help a workman could have, was that which gave him a field wherein he could help himself. I felt, as he talked of our building ourselves a palace, that I would work my own fingers off to build him and his a palace, for he deserves it, God bless him!’ and the man sat down, quite overcome.”
“Oh, I wish I had been there,” said Mrs. Kendrick. “He must be a sensible man.”
“Did Frauenstein say anything?” asked Burnham.
“Oh! He was on his feet like a flash. He said the man’s sentiments did him honor—his emotion did him honor. With men having such comprehension of their rights, and such faith in the honesty of their fellow-men, he could trust the building of the palace. And then he drew a picture of life in the Social Palace—the labor, which would not be drudgery, but a pleasant exercise, that would preserve the health of both body and mind; the nursery and schools for the children; the grand festivals in the vast, glass-covered court, festooned with banners and garlands of the flowers their women and children would cultivate; the music, the societies, the theatre, where the children would learn elegance of bearing and address—O Lord! Burnham, I never heard anything like it. You see, he has studied this subject profoundly. If he succeeds, you will see one grand thing—the happiness of the aged, for they will have a sphere just as the children will. Now, life is organized for the strongest—that is, for adults. No doubt about it. Children are not happy, nor healthy, as a general thing. They are in the way; so are old people. Well, he only made a little speech, ending with a depreciation of war, and some touching remarks on the cultivation of the sentiment of the brotherhood of man. War, he called a stupendous imbecility, as a civilized way of settling disputes, and he offered a gracious tribute to Christ and Dr. Forest.”
“Oh, shame!” exclaimed Mrs. Kendrick.
“I don’t mean, you know, that he mixed them together. He spoke of Christ when talking of the brotherhood of man, and he said, but for Dr. Forest, one of the best and noblest, as well as most learned men he had ever met, the first Social Palace would have been built in some other place. I never saw men so earnest. Why, they already adore the man. They would do anything for him. He’ll get good work out of them, you may be sure.”
“Well, I should think he might, if in working for him, they are building up a grand home for themselves,” said Mrs. Burnham.